


funeral wear/apocalypse chic

by Prankstyr



Category: Bastion
Genre: F/M, Gen, she's not as dead as you thought
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-31
Updated: 2015-07-31
Packaged: 2018-04-12 04:20:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4465262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prankstyr/pseuds/Prankstyr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She wakes up screaming his name.</p><p>She isn't dead yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	funeral wear/apocalypse chic

**Author's Note:**

> did you think this account was dead? nope!!! and not only that, I'm actually writing about a...straight relationship? who am I?
> 
> nah they're both pan and poly and at least one is trans so my Queer Cred™ is still good

She wakes up screaming his name. She shakes it off, like she shakes it off every morning, loosens her grip on the blade covered in Scumbag juice, and steels her nerves against the coming day.

"In case of Emergency, go to the Bastion," the signs all say. She sees one now, decrepit and barely standing. _I'm trying_ , she thinks, _but I don't think the Mancers intended for the path there to be filled with angry creatures trying to take their land back_. She had never felt good, per se, about how the Caels had taken over this particular parcel of earth. But she had also never really had occasion to think about it until now. As she treks through what's left of the Hanging Gardens, her mind jumps back to the last day before the Calamity.  
  
"My darling, you are the most beautiful, wonderful, strong person I've ever known. Would you do me the honor of being my wife?" He had been on his knees. That was the Ura way, to kneel during a proposal like they're praying. And he had looked beautiful too, his hair soft, his eyes wide, his smile shining, his skirt probably getting pretty dirty in the grass like that. And she said yes, of course, and they kissed, and he was whisked off to drink and be merry for the night.  
  
And her? She just went home. Yes, to her old home! An ancient thing. Ten feet underground and made all from concrete. The landlord had said it used to be a cellar, or storage, or something. She had said it was perfect. He always used to tease her for it.   
  
"A treasure as lovely as you, buried in the dirt? Hardly seems right to have you stuck down here."  
  
"Shut up," she'd say affectionately. "It's bigger than yours, anyway."  
  
It saved her life, so it couldn't be that bad.  
  
And now here she is, walking across the Sundown Path with her blade hanging at her side. Her pack is heavy, probably the heaviest thing she's ever carried, but she knows that she's strong, so she just keeps on walking. A rumble in the distance. She looks, can't see, so she pulls out an old bronze spyglass she found in an empty house. And there he is, hundreds of feet away.  
  
Could it be? No, he's too short. Too dark. And a head of tousled white hair that her fiancé would've attacked with a comb in a moment. She chuckles - it's not like her hair is faring any better. Not many showers around after the apocalypse.  
  
And this kid, he's running, he's running, and he's fighting this huge crowd of Squirts and Windbags. _He's incredible,_  she thinks, right before she gets popped in the side of the head and everything goes dark for a moment.  
  
She comes to, and the biggest Squirt she's ever seen is staring her down. She doesn't waste a second. Stab to center of mass, backslash at the head, she's got Squirt reaping down to a system at this point. It falls as she stands up and she hurries on out of there before another animal decides to take her on. She doesn't even notice that she left her spyglass on the ground.  
  
So there are other survivors. It gives her something a little like hope that maybe her fiancé made it.  
  
After all, she isn't dead yet. And he, for all his ponciness, was almost as tough as she was.  
  
She smiles for the first time in weeks. _I'll find you, Zulf. And then I'll beat your head in for ever thinking it was ok to let me think you were dead._  


End file.
